The Fall of the Deserted

by Georg Trakl

The dark fall swells with fruit and abundance,
the yellowed glare of garish summer days.
A pure blueness steps from the ruined husk.
Shadows flap from the ancient myth.
The wine is pressed, benign silence
fraught with the whispered reply to murkier questions.

And here and there a cross on a barren hill.
In the red woods a flock loses itself.
The cloud wanders into the pond’s mirror.
A peasant’s stormless gesture is put to rest.
Below one’s breath the evening wings of grief stir
the dry reeds of our rooftop, the black earth.

Before long the stars will nestle in his weary brow.
In the chilled room a mute humility turns back
and angels tread softly from the blue
eyes of lovers, that more gentle ache.
Reeds hiss. A bone-ridden horror dawns.
Black dew drips from the shaven fields.